Instant Poems for Little Fairies

As dusk settled, so did the fairies, little girls in tights and wings, old ladies in togas and wild hats, men and boys dressed as pirates. It was Faerie Fest  in McArthur, Ohio. Children roamed the village park in costume or not, blowing bubbles, facing wicked trolls under the bridge, meeting the still fairies who would only move if you dropped a coin in their treasure chest, being painted with elaborate designs in paint or henna. The fest stretched across the park and I was most reminded of the July 4th celebration in The Music Man--a community out for a stroll and encountering wonders of art, music, food, dance, and poetry.

I did not see most of these wonders because I was the poetry fairy, Doleta (from Department of Labor Education and Training Administration, to whom I submit data in my day job). I was busy, writing 28 poems in about three hours, nine poems an hour. I never left my chair. In the paragraph above, I describe only the things I could see from my perch by the old stone drinking fountain (now only a seep)--much more was happening out of my awareness.

This is me in the hat...sorry the train doesn't show.
The girl being written for was much better dressed for
Faerie Fest.

I was adorned in a magnificent hat that looked most like a floral chandelier draped with Mardi Gras beads, wearing a dress with a train (a lace tablecloth pinned to my dress), and gold glittery sandals (ouch). On my gold and purple draped table (an old sheet and a discarded curtain) were my trusty clipboard and an assortment of pens.


I wrote poems on such a range of topics it made my head spin, from dogs and cats to chameleons; from peace to love to god; from pickles to drawing to...gosh, I can't even remember them all. I wrote a poem shaped like a spider. I wrote poems in which the first letters of each line spelled something. I would invite children to come over and get a poem of their very own--for free! Children are intrigued by poetry. Their curiosity overcomes the discomfort with poetry that has already taken root in their little souls. And no children can resist something that is specially just for them, one of a kind, on a topic of their choosing.


The child getting a poem sat in the special painted chair while I wrote, or sometimes ran along to another event and came back later, but when she heard the poem read for the first time ever, the magic happened. Eyes widened. People standing around grew quiet. The poetry time came over us all. And I folded the poem and handed it to the child. No copies made, no "I'll mail it to you." A special poem for each special child.


I didn't think this instant poetry thing up, although people think I did. I read about it in a book called Writing Down the Bones, by Natalie Goldberg, a book recommended by my high school English teacher Tom Romano, now a professor at Miami University in Oxford, Ohio. The book advised journaling profusely (it was the first time I'd seen the word journal verbed), which I had already done for years as an adolescent, and I have forgotten most of the writing suggestions, but Goldberg's idea of instant poetry stuck with me. The poem must be spontaneous, and you must give it away. No take-backs or keepers. The choice of topic must belong to the recipient. Goldberg saw it as an exercise in really getting the words out, taking risks, letting the writing flow.


I see it now as an exercise in letting flow, but also in letting go. It's a way to train myself to be in the now in an intense way and to prevent stockpiling and hoarding. Everything goes away...even our dear Earth will burn to a cinder and our beloved star will burn itself out. I must practice and practice this nowness of the universe. A gift freely given. Take this and fly, little fairy. Spread those glittering wings and get a glimpse into magic--the magic of language, of image, of rhyme, of nonsense, of humor, of love, of now, of time.


I wrote a poem for a boy on the topic of drawing, and I ended up goosing his active intelligence (very alive eyes) by writing about what makes something real. If you can draw it, is it real? Does that mean unreal things are real? By drawing, do you actually create reality? And what does that say about writing poems, right now, on the spot? I often felt like I was writing windows into other perspectives. What is the dog really thinking? What is truly great about pickles? How does something become real? I could see the click when a kid really got it, saw something from a different angle for the first time. I love that. That's my pay.


So, writing instant poetry makes me insanely happy, and exhausted at the same time. What better way to get tired than by working your words, by letting the child choose the words and then the words choose the child. Faerie Fest was a wonderful venue for instant poetry, because the children were already primed for magic, for wonder. I was concerned though, that the belief is abroad that poetry is for little girls. I love doing instant poems for adults, but they must be coaxed, even though I can see they want one. This concerns me and amazes me, that poetry has been minimalized and is only safe if it is for the very young. And I find it funny that my poems really are little IEDs, with little explosions for the child, if the poem works. Not safe at all.


A Sample Poem
Here is the instant poem I wrote for my friend Lynn Royer, on the topic of sisters. I wrote this in under five minutes and it fills one sheet of paper. I grabbed whatever images popped into my mind and then did a sort of rapid development. It's not edited, but it serves...it communicates...and if you have sisters, it makes sense. I copied it because I have sisters and I wanted to give it away again to them.


Sisters
If parents are the foundation of a life
Sisters are most certainly the framework,
Building walls, making room for rooms,
Holding up whatever becomes the roof of your life.
Sisters are windows through which to view yourself.
Sisters are doorways for going in and out.


Without sisters, life is just a shack
Leaning a little to the left
And sometimes with a small opening in the door
Shaped like a waning third-quarter moon.


Caution to those who want to try it
Wear comfortable shoes. I think my creativity was a bit off at Faerie Fest because those damn gold sandals were pinching and grabbing and itching. Please, poets, leave vanity behind and be as comfortable as you can when you try this. It's hard to go with the flow with your dogs barking.

Bad sandals